Instant karma for the rich and famous

When she was "Desperately Seeking Susan" Madonna's look was that of a trashy street urchin, all bracelets, belts, messy hair and crucifixes. That was almost 20 years ago. Now she is desperately seeking spirituality. Britain's Best Dressed Woman (in Good Housekeeping magazine's over-40 category) has straightened her hair and dropped the crucifixes and these days the Madonna look consists of a simple red string bracelet. The bracelet is, of course, the trademark of the Kabbalah, a religious movement to which the material girl is the most famous convert. She gave nearly £4m to help open a Kabbalah centre in London last year and her range of children's books feature stories inspired by the movement.

In her infatuation with the Kabbalah, as in so much of the rest of her career, Madonna is not so much setting a trend as following one. Indeed what is most interesting about the present popularity of the Kabbalah sect is how it is simply the latest example of celebrities being seduced by cults led by charismatic men with dubious biographies. Today it is the Kabbalah led by 75-year-old former insurance salesman Fievel Gruberger who changed his name to Philip Berg, reinvented himself and now has assets of more than $20m. Thirty-seven years ago it was the Beatles, not Madonna, and the Maharishi, not the Kabbalah. But the song was the same. A charismatic leader promises enlightenment - instant karma if you will - to the rich and famous.

In the summer of 1967 the Beatles as well as Brian Jones and Mike Jagger of the Rolling Stones had an audience with the Maharishi during a visit to north Wales and listened to the teachings that he called the "spiritual regeneration movement". Later, the Beatles spent time in the Maharishi's ashram on the banks of the River Ganges studying transcendental meditation. Their devotion to the guru did not last long; one reason being his suggestion that they turn over 25% of their income to his work. He was also caught eating meat, which was prohibited, and seducing (and not in the intellectual sense) female disciples. John Lennon later wrote Sexy Sadie, which appears on the White Album, as his reaction to having been duped by the Maharishi. "Sexy Sadie, what have you done," he sings, "you made a fool of everyone."

At the time the Beatles were young and insanely famous and it is perhaps not surprising that they might want to put their faith in a mystic to help them cope with their surreal present. All that is now in the past; Paul McCartney, who has been ridiculously famous for most of his life, chose to deal with his fame not through eastern mysticism but by pretending that he was in fact utterly normal. It has for the most part worked, but don't expect to hear Sexy Sadie next week when he plays at Glastonbury.

Between the fake eastern mysticism of the Maharishi and the distortions of orthodox Judaism that is Berg's Kabbalah have been plenty of other cults for gullible westerners to sign up to. After the Maharishi there was the Indian guru Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, known variously as the "guru of sex" and the "Rolls-Royce guru" because of his two great loves. The Bhagwan had a fleet of 90 Rolls-Royce cars inspiring a popular bumper sticker that read, "Jesus Saves. Moses Invests. Bhagwan Spends." For those suspicious of eastern mysticism there was L Ron Hubbard, science fiction author and Church of Scientology founder whose cult includes Tom Cruise and John Travolta among its followers.

What unites all these movements across the continents and decades is the fact that they are all led by a charismatic frontman promising easy answers in exchange for cash. What has most outraged traditional Jewish organisations about the Kabbalah sect is the suggestion that it is possible to gain wisdom without study. Instead, followers can practise 20-second "speed meditation" and are told that it is possible to subconsciously understand ancient texts simply by running their hands over them. This spiritual nourishment comes at a price of course; there are allegations of disciples being asked to pay 10% of their incomes to the sect, which sells everything from red bracelets to blessed water to face cream.

If one was to ask Madonna, Britney or - God help you - Victoria Beckham what the appeal of the Kabbalah was the odds are that you would be drowned in a verbal tide of meaningless psycho-babble. And yet the roots of its appeal are quite straightforward and have almost nothing to do with spiritual fulfilment. Traditional religion is about a relationship between the individual and God and the assumption is that the Almighty is more important. What many of these neo-religious movements do is recalibrate the balance so that the focus is on the individual; not what you can do for God but what God can do for you. It is the spirituality of narcissism. Seen in this light it is not surprising that so many, not just celebrities, find this appealing. Belonging to such sects is about reaping the rewards of spirituality without having to pay the price. It is religion without the calories, an Atkins diet for the soul. Just as Atkins promises it is possible to lose weight painlessly, just as Botox assures that ageing can be arrested, so groups such as the Kabbalah offer decaffeinated religion to those afraid of the hard stuff.

Of course it is not simply about rampant egotism. As well as being able to use religion to justify to themselves that their fame was planned and deserved and not random and fleeting, the other great appeal of belonging to a cult is quite simply that it is a cult. As the celebrity class has swelled in numbers there is less exclusivity for the real stars. Book a table at the Ivy and there is always the danger you might be sitting near a Fame Academy contestant. Go to a private club and cower at the prospect of bumping into a former Big Brother inmate. Viewed through the paranoid lens of the famous the greatest appeal of belonging to something such as the Kabbalah is that you reduce the risk of ever having to talk to Linda Barker.

Suddenly a red bracelet no longer seems like such a high price to pay.

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